


Miserere

by KatZen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Profound Bond, References to Underage Prostitution, Season/Series 06, Teenage Winchesters, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatZen/pseuds/KatZen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean comes to, he knows he's fucked.</p><p>He's not where he's supposed to be, which means somebody's probably taken him. He's hoping to God that it's just one of the less savory characters he ended up in a...business transaction with last night, taking things a little too far.</p><p>He's just hoping to God that whatever it is, it's human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Dean comes to, he knows he's fucked.

For one thing, it's daylight. Which means that he lost...oh, at an optimistic estimate, no less than five hours. He's still wearing the clothes he was wearing last night, which means he didn't go back to the motel to change. And he's not in his motel room now, which means that Sammy's been alone all night.

He keeps his eyes half-lidded and doesn't move, because he's not where he's supposed to be, which means somebody's probably taken him. He's hoping to God that it's just one of the less savory characters he ended up in a... _business transaction_ with last night, taking things a little too far.

He's just hoping to God that whatever it is, it's human.

So he looks around at his surroundings as best he can while still playing possum, and he's not encouraged by what he sees. He's on a padded pallet on the floor of what looks like a storage facility, maybe a small warehouse, with slate-gray walls and high, dirty windows streaming morning light blearily down at him. There's scattered pallets and boxes around the room, stacked by the walls or thrown around the bare cement floor. It's cold, too.

Well. His face and arms and hands are cold. His torso's not, and his legs aren't. Because he's got a blanket covering him—soft and heavy, laid carefully on top of him, sides even tucked under him. The whole thing screams _tender_.

He tries to suppress a shiver. That's some weird shit right there, edging into psycho territory.

He shifts, attempting to make it look like he's just stretching and rolling over in his sleep, and checks for the knife he keeps on an ankle sheath. It's there, thank _God_ , because it's looking like he's been straight-up regular kidnapped and he can deal with a human kidnapper as long as he's armed. He slides it out of its sheath into his hand before he opens his eyes the whole way.

Bright blue eyes meet his with an unearthly calm, and he yells out as he kicks the blanket off of him and scrambles to his feet.

The guy is sitting in a chair and doesn't move when Dean bolts away from him, just watches, looking weary and the faintest bit amused. It's in the way his mouth just barely pulls to the side, a slight upward tilt to his eyebrows, and it scares the shit out of Dean in a way that few things can anymore. He keeps the knife outstretched as he demands "Who the fuck are you?" but the guy doesn't seem worried about it, and that doesn't make Dean feel any better.

The guy stands up, and he's got a couple of inches on Dean, but it's nothing Dean can't compensate for. He looks like he's in his mid thirties, with a mess of dark hair above those intense eyes and a slouchy, oversized trench coat hanging over a black suit like it's his big brother's. Everything about him is just like one degree off, like he's not comfortable in his clothes or his skin or _anything._ He takes a step closer and Dean takes a step back. He doesn't try it again. "I'll explain everything," the guy promises, "but I need you to keep your voice down."

"Why?" Dean retorts. "Afraid the cops are gonna show, and you here with the dude you kidnapped?"

"Kidnapped?" Dean nods tightly. That earns him a birdlike head-tilt, which is seriously strange, and has Dean swallowing hard past a lump of what is definitely not fear suddenly lodged in his throat. "Do you not recall what happened last night?" the guy asks, voice low and concerned.

"I _recall_ enough," Dean lies, because all he remembers is leaving Sammy doing his homework after dinner and going out into the bitter cold in clothes far too thin for the elements. He remembers hoping he'd get lucky and some dude would pick him up and he'd have enough money to buy Sammy dinner again the next day. He remembers standing on his usual corner, he remembers one dude (older guy, schlubby, but not horrible by Dean's admittedly low standards), and then he's waking up after apparently having this freaky dude kidnap him and wrap him up in a blanket and watch him sleep.

The guy comes closer again and Dean backs up until his back hits the wall, and then he waves the knife threateningly, which doesn't faze the guy at all. "Back off," Dean growls.

"The memory loss could simply be due to the stress," the guy murmurs, like Dean hadn't said anything, "or it could be head trauma."

_Head trauma?_

And then the pain rushes in.

Adrenaline must've been keeping it at bay, but like Wile E. Coyote realizing he'd walked off the cliff, once Dean knows he's been hurt it's like his body remembers it. He staggers sideways, his head throbbing, his ribs aching, and his fingers fumble to keep the knife in a helpful position. The room spins around him and his free hand flails to the side, trying to find purchase.

Strong hands grip his biceps and his kidnapper guides him gently down to the floor. Once he's there, Dean stares up at those weird blue eyes and he knows he sounds like a fucking _victim_ but his head hurts too much to fight, and he knows that he won't win, not with the way those hands held him up like a rag doll and the way that he's having a harder and harder time thinking straight, so he goes limp and mumbles something that's halfway a plea, halfway a prayer, and all a last-ditch effort.

"Just don't hurt me, okay? I'll do what you want, you can do what you want to me, just don't hurt me any more, okay? It's okay, I'll be quiet. Shh, I'll be quiet, I'll be good."

And he knows he's babbling but he can't help himself until a warm hand comes to rest on his cheek, and then he's just staring with wide eyes, his breath coming in shallow, pained bursts, and all he can hope is that the guy's not into anything too weird and that if he's gonna kill Dean he does it quick.

All he can do is stare into blue eyes almost as wide as his own, boring into him with endless depths of what looks like concern and anxiety and maybe even grief but that could be the head trauma talking and Dean's not gonna get his hopes up.

Then both of the guy's hands are on his face until one slowly shifts into his hair, fingers threading through sweat-slicked locks that are getting longer than Dean likes, and the other drops down to his abused ribs, and Dean closes his eyes because whatever's gonna happen next, if he has to watch, he figures the guy will tell him.

It's then that his head clears, his ribs shift in a bolt of white-hot agony and return to their rightful places, and after a single scream of torment it's like somebody opened a drain and all of the pain goes flooding out of Dean. It leaves him breathless and senseless enough that he hears the clatter of the knife against the cement like it's happening in another room, or in a dream.

"It will take your body a moment to adjust to the healing. Don't move too quickly," the man warns him, as if Dean had any plans of moving at all, possibly ever. He palms at his ribs experimentally, but where there was a dull but vicious ache before there's nothing now, just healthy ribs all where they're supposed to be, and the throbbing in the base of his skull is gone, and _holy shit he remembers._

He remembers the wind biting at him as he composed himself after the schlubby guy, adjusting his button-down (four buttons undone at the top) and shoving his pockets back inside his too-tight jeans, now a little bit tighter for the forty bucks he has stashed in his back pocket.

He remembers a guy approaching him, tall and powerfully built, wearing a nice suit and radiating confidence and authority. Not his usual clientele but he showed Dean a hundred dollar bill and Dean was not asking any questions.

He remembers the weird way the guy looked at him, the thrill of fear that went through him as the thought passed through his mind that _this is how a predator looks at trapped prey_ but deciding that wild Animal Planet musings weren't gonna feed Sammy or pay the rent.

He remembers wet pavement on his knees and his icy cold fingers fumbling with a belt.

He remembers a heavy hand in his hair, and he remembers trying to look up and being unable to.

He remembers that hand curling in his hair and forcing his head up to look at the man's face once before he was thrown aside, landing hard on the cement, thrown farther and more forcefully than should have been possible.

He remembers thinking _oh shit, what is Dad here hunting?_ and not being able to remember because he was distracted by the blood in his eyes.

He remembers two kicks to his ribs and one that sent his head smashing against the wall.

He remembers a hand fisting in his shirt and through pain-fogged eyes seeing his assailant about to say something.

He remembers a burst of air and pressure so intense it threw him out of the man's grip and against the wall, sliding down slowly as whatever was holding him fought against gravity.

He remembers a light so bright he cried out and shielded his eyes with an arm, still pressed against the wall of the alley.

He remembers opening his eyes to the sight of two men, one his client and the other—

oh god the other one the guy in front of him now

—he remembers them facing off, both with wicked-looking silver blades in their hands and—

—he remembers the yellow light of the street lamps casting shadows of what he thought at the time looked like _wings_ on the filthy alley walls and—

—he remembers _leave the boy, Raphael, he is not part of this—_

—he remembers _Castiel, you have no right to rewrite the rules simply because you're the one who broke the game—_

—and he remembers the light growing again, growing from inside his kidnapper, shining through his eyes and his skin and the blade and he remembers

_If you touch Dean Winchester again, I will see you dead at my feet, no matter the cost._

He remembers the light swallowing him whole.

And then darkness until he woke up tucked into bed in this warehouse.

He presses himself harder against the wall, knowing that if he goes for his knife again his kidnapper ( _Castiel_ , his brain insists) will reach it before he does, and he doesn't want to give him a reason to escalate the situation. So he just watches him, waiting for him to make the first move.

If Castiel's playing a game, though, he's not good at it, because he quickly breaks the silence as he says, "You remember." It's not a question.

"Yeah," Dean whispers. "What are you?"

Castiel huffs out a quiet laugh, his blue eyes too knowing and too familiar. "You won't believe me," he says with certainty.

"I'm pretty gullible," Dean replies, but his voice is softer than he'd like it to be. "Try me."

Castiel's eyes run over his body, and Dean shivers again, but there's nothing hungry about that look, not the way he's used to seeing older guys look at him. It's tender, maybe, weirdly, like the tucking him in. But mostly it's clinical, like he's looking for an injury he might have missed. When he's done his head dips, like he can't look Dean in the eye, but then he lifts it and studies Dean's face for a moment. "It's better if you don't know," he says, and there's a decision in his voice that Dean feels it's futile to fight. "Suffice it to say that my name is Castiel, and that I'm here to protect you."

"From the guy in the alley," Dean says.

"From him," Castiel agrees, "and his allies, and others like him. You are in danger, and the way you are making yourself...vulnerable...isn't helping."

Dean flushes at his words, anger and shame mixing together to form something that makes his stomach burn and his eyes drop to the floor. "Sorry that paying rent interfered with your plans for me," he mutters sullenly, his eyes snapping back up when he hears another soft huff of laughter.

"No, Dean," Castiel says, and Dean thinks _I didn't tell him my name_ before he remembers Castiel's booming, overwhelming voice announcing to the world that

_If you touch Dean Winchester again_

then you're asking for a world of hurt.

Which Dean doesn't like, by the way, that doesn't sit right with him, because _he's_ supposed to be doing the protecting, not being the protected one, and—

"Oh my god, Sammy." He looks up with panicked eyes, but Castiel's already shaking his head.

"Your brother is safe," he says. "He is warded within your motel room. I provided him with food and money for the rent—with a note I forged in your name. I regret the deceit, but he would not have accepted such charity from a stranger."

The word _rent_ reminds Dean of what they were talking about before he brought up Sammy, and he flushes again. He startles when he feels Castiel's hand under his chin, tilting it up so that their eyes meet. "I understand," the...whatever he is says quietly. "I do not fault you. I only wish I could change things for you. I would give much to see you better off, Dean. Safe, happy, well." A thumb passes over Dean's cheekbone in a gesture that he instinctively calls a _caress_ before admonishing himself for being a girl. "It is what I fight for, after all."

Dean is stock-still under Castiel's touch, controlling his breathing carefully, not wanting to startle his kidnapper/rescuer/whatever, not wanting to make a wrong move because even if there's food and rent money at the motel, Sammy still needs him, and it's no good if he up and gets himself killed here. Castiel seems to feel the change, maybe notices the wariness in Dean's eyes, and he takes his hand away. "I'm alarming you," he notes, and he sounds a little disappointed, but in himself—like _there I go again_. "Personal space. And chick-flick moments. Forgive me; I forgot myself."

And hearing his own words from the lips of this strangest of strangers freezes something in Dean's gut, and their eyes lock together, Castiel's suddenly less confident and Dean's wide and panicked. "Who are you," Dean whispers.

"Dean," Castiel begins, reaching out for him again, but Dean stumbles back and away from his captor. He grabs the knife from the ground, holding it in front of him as he presses his back against the wall. His hands are shaking. If he has to stab Castiel, he's not going to hit true.

God, he's so fucked.

But Castiel isn't making any moves toward him, keeping his hands visible. He gives Dean his space, and he reaches out an empty hand. "Dean," he says, gently. "Give me the knife."

"Like hell," Dean laughs, and it sounds a little more hysterical than he'd like. "How do you know me?"

Castiel sighs and presses his fingers against his temples in a gesture that seems suddenly and strangely human, his lips pressed tight together. "It's difficult to explain," he says, "but if you'll listen to me—"

"You can fuck right off," Dean snarls, waving the knife a little for effect. Castiel's eyes narrow, and Dean shudders, the hairs on his arms rising as he smells something that makes him think of ozone.

"Dean. Stop being difficult," Castiel commands, his words startlingly out of whack with his tone of voice, belly-deep and rolling like thunder, and Dean can't do anything but gape for a minute at the power behind that voice. When Castiel leans forward he stabs out of habit, but he almost doesn't want to.

It doesn't stop the knife from going in, much more accurately than Dean could have hoped.

They both stop and stare at the knife, sticking out from where it hit home directly in the middle of Castiel's heart. "Oh god," Dean murmurs. "Oh god. Oh god."

"Dean." Dean looks up, startled at the even, unconcerned voice, and his eyes widen further when he sees the small, wry smile on Castiel's face. "I'd prefer if you didn't take His name in vain."

And with that, Castiel wraps his hand around the hilt of the knife and pulls it free.

No blood.

Not even a wince.

And Dean sits back, lets his head rest against the wall, because he knows when he's beat. The knife was his only weapon, and if that didn't do anything, his fists sure as hell won't.

"Christo," he whispers, just to see.

But Castiel just smiles, and it's not as scary as Dean thought it would be, looking at the smiling face of the thing that was going to kill him.

In fact, as Castiel reaches for him and Dean shuts his eyes against whatever's coming, he thinks that it was kind of a nice smile.

And then it's dark again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my laptop up and died in a way from which there is no return, so I've been writing on my iPhone, which is the worst. Extremely sporadic updates will continue until I save up the money to buy a new laptop. In the meantime, reviews are most welcome, especially if you have ideas about where you'd like to see this go! This is the first time I've really written a WIP without a clear end-goal, but I've started it and I don't leave stories unfinished. Hope it satisfies!

Just like last time, he doesn't open his eyes when he wakes up.

"—the fuck is this, Cas?"

"If you'll calm down, I can explain."

"Calm _down_? How the fuck do you expect me to—"

"Cas, you have to admit, this is pretty messed up, even for us."

"I am aware that—"

"You're aware of _shit_ , as usual!" Dean winces slightly at the anger in the voice of the person he's thinking of as Guy 1. "Christ, Cas, what did you _do_?"

That crackling of ozone is back, and Castiel's voice rumbles, "I saved your life. As _usual_."

There's a moment of silence, which Guy 2 breaks with a hesitant, "Okay, let's all just take a step back. Whatever happened, it's done now, and we have to deal with...this."

Dean knows that he's the _this_ , and he resists the urge to burrow further under the heavy blankets he's once again found himself beneath.

"I need a drink," Guy 1 mutters, and a moment later there's a door slamming to announce his exit from whatever room they're in.

There's a gusty sigh and the creaking of a chair as someone sits down, and then Castiel says, "I know that you're awake, Dean. You can open your eyes."

So he does, and he's in a motel room, but not _his_ motel room. Alive, which is unexpected. Castiel is standing next to a man (Guy 2, Dean thinks) who's sitting in a chair, slumped over, one hand over his mouth as he stares at Dean. Even sitting, Dean can tell he's huge, and he shrinks back a little bit.

He couldn't even take just Castiel when he was armed and Castiel wasn't. Why would Castiel need to bring Dean somewhere with backup?

Unless Guy 1 and Guy 2 weren't backup, just friends, and Dean's initial assumption about what Castiel wanted with him had been more accurate.

Which makes him want to crawl back under the covers, where the monsters can't find you.

But at the same time, he can handle this. If the game isn't Kill Dean Til He Dies Of It, he has a chance of escaping, if he plays his cards right. And Dean's good at playing his cards right.

So first things first: this is obviously an intimidation game. Castiel wants him scared, so he can do scared, much as it galls him. And it's not hard to pretend, at this juncture. So he lets his eyes go really wide and he backs up against the wall, hugging the blankets to him. He looks between Castiel and Guy 2, and decides that whatever the argument was about, there's a good chance it means that Guy 1 and Guy 2 weren't briefed on the kidnap-a-sixteen-year-old plan, so maybe he has an ally. So it's Guy 2's eyes that he holds when he stammers, "Wh-where am I?"

"Somewhere safe," Castiel says, before Guy 2 can answer. "I apologize for alarming you again, but I could not risk detection by bringing you here conscious."

"Cas, c'mon, he's scared," Guy 2 murmurs, looking pained. He doesn't get up, and he moves really slowly, like he's trying not to spook Dean. "You're okay, man. Nobody's going to hurt you."

Okay, so Guy 2 wants to be the hero. Dean can do that, too. He nods quickly, plastering a look of helpless gratitude on his face. "Okay," he says, like he's convincing himself. "Okay. I believe you."

For some reason that makes Guy 2 smile, but it's not one of those cold, predatory smiles Dean's used to. It's more nostalgic, almost the kind that Dean's dad gets when Sammy does something cute. "Damn," Guy 2 says, softly, and obviously to Castiel, though his eyes don't leave Dean. "He really is him, isn't he?"

"I have told you as much," Castiel replies in his usual dry tone.

"Is he armed?" Guy 2 asks.

"I took the knife from him at the warehouse. It was his only weapon."

Apparently satisfied with that, Guy 2 stands up and walks slowly, cautiously towards Dean. Dean shifts on the bed to stay as far away as possible, though he knows running isn't an option. For all he knows, Guy 1 is still right outside the door, and he sounded like the pissiest one out of the bunch. And anyway, Guy 2 is keeping his hands where Dean can see them, and it's like he's trying to radiate harmlessness.

Which is hard at seven feet tall and built like a truck, but he seems like he's trying, which lessens the fear boiling beneath Dean's skin just a little bit.

"I know you must be scared," Guy 2 says, his voice quiet and gentle, and it kind of pisses Dean off, being treated like some little kid. "And I know you must be confused. Believe me, when we figure out what's going on, we'll tell you." He hesitates, then asks, "How old are you?"

Some quick calculations tell Dean it'll be better for him if they think he's younger, and everybody always tells him he looks young for his age anyway, so he's pretty sure he'll get away with it when he says, "Fifteen."

Guy 2 studies him through narrowed eyes, and Dean feels a shiver of fear go through him. There's another wry smile as Guy 2 says, "Try again."

"I am," Dean protests weakly. Guy 2 fixes him with an unimpressed look, and Dean scowls. "What the hell does it matter to you, anyway? Whatever you want with me, what's one age or another? You know I'm a minor, don't you? So what the fuck does it matter?" He knows he's shouting now, but can't bring himself to care. "You and your weirdo friends are either gonna fuck me or not, kill me or not, and don't pretend that it _matters_ if I'm fifteen or sixteen or seventeen! No! Get off of me!" And now he's screaming, flailing with uncoordinated limbs as Guy 2 restrains him.

Only it's not restraint, not for long, as the Sasquatch of a man presses Dean to his chest in something Dean dimly recognizes as a hug. "Jesus, Dean," he whispers. "Nobody's going to touch you like that. I swear. We're trying to protect you."

"I don't need your shitty protection," Dean retorts, and he tries to make it come out tough, but he's sniffling as he chokes back tears. "Just let me go. Okay? Just let me go. My brother needs me."

And for some reason that makes Guy 2 embrace him tighter, and after all the fear and pain and horrible anticipation, Dean is horrified to feel himself melting into the embrace. "Your brother's fine," he says softly. "He always is. You make sure of that. And he...he appreciates it."

Castiel clears his throat, and both Dean and Guy 2 look at him. He shakes his head once, and Guy 2 looks down, abashed. When Dean looks at him, he sees that the much larger man's eyes are as full of tears as his are.

He's about to ask why when Guy 1 storms back in, and Dean inhales sharply.

There's no denying how much the older man looks like him. An uncle, maybe? An older cousin? Dad never said they had more family. He'd always assumed that if there was anybody, they were dead.

Hell, come to think of it, even Guy 2 looks kind of like him.

What the fuck?

Guy 1 seems to be having similar thoughts, as he runs his hands through his hair and mutters, "Jesus Christ."

"Dean," Guy 2 says, warningly, and Dean and Guy 1 both look at him, but he's not looking at Dean.

"I know," Guy 1 replies, and it hits Dean that his name must also be Dean. "Fuck. I know."

"I think y—I think he's sixteen," Guy 2 says, and Guy 1 makes a choked noise that he cuts off abruptly. Then he strides forward and grabs Dean by the arm, his fingers tight enough to bruise.

"No!" Dean screams. "Get off! Let me go!"

"Dean!" Guy 2 shouts, reaching to pull Dean out of Other Dean's grasp. But he can't break the grip, and Other Dean pulls him away, out of Guy 2's reach. "Dean, calm down. Come on, man. Don't hurt him."

"Like I would," Other Dean snaps. "You think I'm stupid? We just need a word." Despite his companion's objections, Other Dean drags Dean outside, shutting the door behind them.

Dean immediately crosses his arms over his chest and backs up to the edge of the sidewalk, ready to bolt even though he knows that despite the fact that Castiel healed him, he wouldn't be able to outrun this guy on his best day. He shivers a little, and while he tells himself it's just because he's cold, he doesn't think that the Other Dean misses it or is gonna be fooled.

"You're sixteen," Other Dean says flatly.

"Fuck you," Dean spits.

"Where were you when Cas found you? Missouri?" he asks, and Dean freezes. They'd been in Missouri just two weeks ago. But Other Dean is studying him, looking carefully at the clothes he's wearing, and he shakes his head. "No. Nebraska."

What the hell? "How the fuck did—"

"Cas knows what you were doing there." It isn't a question. "So do I. That's all the people who need to know, you understand?"

"You don't know shit about me," Dean snipes, then shrinks back when Other Dean crouches in, super close to his face.

"Your dad's been gone for three weeks, and he left enough rent money for one and a half," the older man says, his voice tight. Dean swallows hard. How the fuck. "You tried hustling pool but knew it wasn't gonna cut it. Not in a town that small. So you put on Sammy's jeans and a shirt that was getting too small for you and you found a corner."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean growls, and Other Dean takes a breath to not shut up, but Dean’s had it. "No. Shut up. I don't know what the fuck you are but you don't get to talk about my life like that. Or my dad."

Something like grief passes over Other Dean's face, and he says, "I'm not trying to mess with you, kid. But don't...don't say anything about it. Don't mention—"

"I wouldn't have said _anything_. You brought it up first."

"I'm just saying to keep a—"

"Like I want everybody to know what I—"

"Jesus!" Other Dean straightens and runs a hand through his hair, chuckling quietly. "I get what people say about me, now. It's annoying."

Dean swallows hard. The man in front of him is impossible to get a read on, so Dean just goes on what he can see. Other Dean has a good four inches on him, and probably forty pounds, all of it muscle. He's got scars and Hunter's eyes, haunted and cagey. And he looks at Dean like he's seeing a ghost—and not in the normal way, in the poetic way.

"What do you want from me?" he asks, and Other Dean sighs gustily.

"Fuck if I know, kid," the older man says, sounding rueful. "Cas is kind of running this show."

"What is he?" Dean asks.

Other Dean gets the weirdest look on his face, halfway irritated and halfway awestruck, but he shakes it off quickly and says, "Don't worry about it. The less you know, the better off you are."

"What the fuck kind of Hunter works with a monster?" Dean challenges, and is only half as gratified as he thought he'd be when the older man's eyes darken. Other Dean crowds into his space a little, and Dean's breath catches. _Jesus_ , he's a big dude.

"The kind that wants to have half a chance of surviving the year," Other Dean retorts, low in the back of his throat. Dean can't suppress the little shudder that runs through him, because when guys bigger than him sound like that, one of two things follows. And if they were going to beat him up, he figures their monster buddy wouldn't have bothered with healing him.

But _survive the year_. That means something's going down. A big hunt, something that could make this scary son of a bitch worried enough to _admit_ that he's worried. "That what this is?" Dean asks, his voice less demanding than he's hoped. "Things are looking bleak, so you need a fuck for luck? You didn't have to have your weirdo pal kidnap me, dude. I'm not hard to find."

For some reason, Other Dean looks nauseated at the suggestion. "Fuck, kid," he chokes, stepping back all hurried like his delicate sensibilities have been offended. "No. Nobody's gonna fuck you. Christ."

"Then if you know what I am and your buddy _Cas_ knows what I am, why'd you pick me up? Huh?" Dean demands. "Is this about my dad? Because I don't know where he is."

"I don't _know_ what Cas is doing," Other Dean snaps. "I'm just hoping _he_ knows what he's doing.”

“What do you want with me?” Dean asks, suddenly very tired. “Just tell me.”

A moment passes where they just stare at each other, and Dean feels beaten down just by the other man’s gaze. There’s too much in it; it’s heavy with age that shouldn’t be present in eyes set in a face that can’t be past its thirties.

Dean knows his eyes don’t belong to a sixteen-year-old, but this goes beyond that.

But Other Dean doesn’t seem likely to break eye contact first, so Dean does, and sinks to the ground with his back to the wall. It’s a clear sign of surrender, and Dean hates it, but he doesn’t know what’s going on and he’s not going to win against Castiel and Other Dean and Guy 2, whose name it suddenly bothers Dean that he doesn’t know.

“Who’s the freakishly tall guy inside?” he asks wearily.

Other Dean’s eyes soften for some reason, but Dean’s past caring why. “That’s my brother,” he says. There’s something like a smile tugging at the older man’s lips, while at the same time his eyes seem even heavier. He sits down in front of Dean, who finds himself almost violently appreciative of the move—bringing himself down to Dean’s level, giving up his physical advantage, to a point.

“He’s really tall,” Dean repeats, feeling dumb but not sure what else to say.

Other Dean snorts. “Yeah. He is. But he’s a teddy bear, seriously. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

Dean leans his head back against the wall, studying the older man out of the corner of his eye. “Your kid brother?” he asks.

Other Dean nods. “My kid brother,” he echoes, and Dean feels a swell of kinship at the sound of the words, the way they’re spoken, the affection and irritation and undercurrent of _you wanna make something of it?_ Yeah. Definitely an older brother.

Then, the big one: “Are we related?”

He’s been watching Other Dean’s face pretty closely, so he sees instantly when it shuts down, and he winces, cursing silently. Other Dean stands up and clearly expects Dean to do the same, so he does, dusting off the back of his (now embarrassingly) tight jeans. He hovers by the wall, waiting for a cue of some kind, some indication of what exactly it is he fucked up. But all Other Dean says is “We better go inside before Cas comes out to make sure I didn’t kill you,” and it’s curt and distracted and a little worried. Dean doesn’t hesitate to follow him when he goes back into the motel room.

He stops outside the door, though, and turns to Dean, who takes a step back. A flash of regret crosses Other Dean’s face, but he just says, “You asked what we want,” he says. Dean nods, wary. “The answer is nothing. Just to keep you safe. Okay? That’s what we do. Like your dad. That’s all.”

“You’re not my dad,” Dean says quietly.

Other Dean huffs a laugh, but it’s remarkably humorless. “That’s the fucking truth, kid. But I do want you safe. Believe me?”

Dean doesn’t believe him. But at the same time, he doesn’t think he’s going to hurt him—not anymore. So he just nods again, and thankfully, Other Dean accepts it.

Castiel and Guy 2 are talking in quiet voices when they open the door, stopping instantly when they walk inside. Guy 2 stares at them, looking weirdly baffled before that same sadness Dean had seen before overtakes his expression. “Good talk?” he asks suspiciously, glaring at Other Dean.

“Yep,” Other Dean replies, faking brightness, clapping Dean on the shoulder. For the impressive sound it makes, it’s markedly gentle, and Dean gives him a weird look. The older man doesn’t look back at him.

Guy 2 doesn’t look convinced, and glances at Dean, like he would’ve been dumb enough to contradict the second-biggest guy in the room even if anything had happened. “Okay,” he says, finally, “whatever. You must be starving, Dean.”

Dean takes a second to figure out who’s being spoken to, and when he realizes that it’s him, he shrugs. “I could eat,” he says reluctantly. He doesn’t want to owe these people anything, and he sure as hell isn’t really happy about taking food from them, but he _does_ need to eat if he’s going to get the hell out of here, and free food is free food.

As though reading his mind, Guy 2 says, “There are some cans of soup in the kitchenette. Want to come heat them up with me?”

He hesitates. On the one hand, it’ll be nice to see with his own eyes that they’re not drugging him. On the other hand, he’ll have to be stuck in the tiny kitchenette with this guy. He looks to Castiel and Other Dean, who are staring at each other for some reason, so he shrugs and says “Okay”, heading towards the kitchenette.

Then Other Dean’s voice shatters whatever else might have been on his mind as he says, “Okay, Sammy, Cas and I are gonna go out for some recon while you ladies fire up the EZ Bake.”

Dean freezes, and Guy 2—

_—Sammy—_

breathes, “Jesus, Dean.”

There’s a moment where no one talks, and Other Dean says, sounding a little panicked, “Shit. You said my name first, man, I just wasn’t—”

“Dean?” Castiel’s soft, concerned voice is obviously directed at him, but Dean can’t breathe, and the room is starting to spin as he stares at Other Dean.

At himself.

At himself, in the future, still Hunting, with the weight of unknown terrible somethings in his eyes and some monster on his team because otherwise he won’t survive the year and he still might not.

At himself, in the future, maybe in the last year of his life.

_Christ._

He spares the mental effort to be mildly embarrassed about doing this in front of Sammy ( _how did Sammy get so huge_ ) before he pitches forward and passes out.


	3. Chapter 3

He wakes up on the bed again, in the same motel room that’s not his, and he feels the faint prickling in the air that he’s come to associate with Castiel. This time, he doesn’t wait to be told before he opens his eyes.

Castiel is sitting in the chair across the room from him, his eyes closed, elbows on his thighs and bent over like he’s meditating. Dean knows he’s not asleep. Dean figures he probably doesn’t sleep. He’s probably been watching _Dean_ sleep. He’s still fully decked out in his slacks, button-down, suit coat, tie, and trench coat, and although he looks a little rumpled, he’s not so disheveled that he looks like he’s been napping.

Nobody else is in the room—Giant Sammy and his older self are nowhere to be found. That reassures him somewhat, although he’s not sure why, because it isn’t like Castiel is less of a threat. In fact, probably way more of one. But at least he’s the only Dean Winchester in the room, and at least he’s not a foot shorter than his baby brother, and at least thinking about Castiel’s existence doesn’t hurt his brain.

He sits up and brings his knees to his chest, and Castiel raises his gaze gradually. His eyes soften when they reach Dean’s face, and Dean shifts uncomfortably. He’s not used to a look like that coming from an adult. Makes him feel weird.

“You have questions,” Castiel says.

_You’re goddamned right_ is what Dean wants to say. Instead he hears a quiet “yes” in his voice.

“I know that you enjoy science fiction,” Castiel continues, which seems like a crazy non sequitur, and Dean frowns. “I hope you’ll understand, then, that there are things I cannot share with you. That...the others cannot share with you, or explain to you.”

“Because of, like, paradoxes?” Dean asks.

The expression on Castiel’s face isn’t quite a smile, but it’s close. “Precisely. But ask the questions that you feel you need to. I will answer as many as I can.”

Dean only hesitates for a moment, to put away the questions he’d been turning over in his head— _when am I, how did you bring me here, when will you bring me back_. He doesn’t need to think long about what question he does need to ask. It’s the only question that he has that really matters. “Is Sammy okay? My Sammy. You said you’d warded the room. How long does the warding last?”

“No one will be expecting the type of warding I provided,” Castiel replies. “He won’t notice it, and anyone trying to find him won’t know how to break it. Your brother will be safe. I promise you that.”

“Does he know I’m missing yet?” Dean asks.

Again that soft look. “I will endeavour to bring you back early enough in your timeline so that he does not worry,” says Castiel. “Which should also answer your concern about my warding fading.” His half-smile drops, and suddenly he looks deadly serious, which sends a shiver down Dean’s spine. The fear he feels is a little confused when Castiel adds, “I protect the Winchesters, Dean. It’s what I do. You and your brother—anything I can do to keep you safe, I will.”

“Why?” Dean isn’t sure where the question comes from, or why he’s questioning it, but a lifetime of suspicion and paranoia doesn’t go away overnight.

Castiel’s voice is even as he replies: “Because you deserve it.”

That doesn’t make sense, so Dean just picks at the pilling blanket that’s draped over his legs. He’s tired of people tucking him in. He’s not a kid and he’s not an invalid. But he’s also too tired and too confused to really make a fuss about it.

The motel room is chilly, and he shivers a little, his thin button-down too little barrier against the cold. He wants to curl back up under the blankets, but he doesn’t want to look like a baby or, really, to take his eyes off of Castiel. Not that he thinks he could fight him, but it just goes against all his training to let a potential enemy out of his sight.

There’s a flash of hurt across Castiel’s face—well, maybe hurt is the wrong word. It’s a pained look, that’s for sure, but there’s not a lot of offense in it, just sadness. He stands and reaches into one of the drawers in the dresser next to him, and pulls out another blanket. Wordlessly, he walks to Dean, unfolds the blanket over his shoulders, and sits on the other bed.

“You are vulnerable to illness right now,” he says, like he’s trying to justify himself. “When I found you, you had been exposed to the cold for a long time. The stress of traveling here, and the emotional trauma of meeting...the others...have taken their toll. You should stay warm, if you can. When you are ready, there is food.”

Dean glances at the kitchen, and sees a few boxes of take-out on the counter. He huddles down beneath the new blanket, and Castiel smiles faintly but warmly.

“What did that thing want with me?” Dean blurts, and Castiel stills, the smile fading instantly. “In the alley. The thing you saved me from. What did it want? Why _me_? I know it was me, too. I mean, Dad and I have hunted things that go after hookers before, because, obviously, go for the ones nobody will miss, but it knew my name.”

Castiel _winces_ at that. Like physically flinches. He murmurs, “Dean, please do not imply that you would be unmourned if something were to happen to you.”

The silence that falls between them is exactly fifty percent stunned, fifty percent miserable. Dean’s providing all the stunned. “I didn’t really mean that,” he replies, although if he’s honest he didn’t really _not_ mean it. But no. Sammy would miss him, for a while. He’s pretty sure. “I meant, you know. Statistically. Hookers and homeless.”

“No life goes unmourned,” Castiel says, but he doesn’t look at Dean while he says it. “Yours least of all.”

Dean lets the silence hang for another minute before he presses: “You didn’t answer my question.”

The creature in front of him takes a deep, fortifying breath, and answers, “He was trying to get rid of you before you become a threat to his plans. He was trying to kill you because you are important, and you are more powerful than he assumed. So he decided to get rid of you as a child, because it would be easier and because he is a coward.”

“I’m not important,” Dean breathes.

Castiel laughs, a single, huffed breath. “You’re very wrong.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know _everything_ about you, Dean.” Castiel’s voice is fervent, hard as concrete, and more than a little intimidating. “Down to your molecules. You are important.”

“You know me like that?” Dean asks, making his eyes go wide. Castiel nods solemnly. “How?”

Castiel’s face falls. “I can’t tell you, Dean.”

“Why won’t you just tell me what you _are_?” Dean knows he’s jumping all around the conversation, and he knows that he sounds petulant, but he just cannot be bothered to give a damn about either fact. He kind of enjoys the fact that Castiel seems to have a hard time keeping up with his leaps of logic. Makes him feel like he has the smallest little bit of power here.

“My kind were not on Earth yet, when I found you,” Castiel explains patiently, though Dean can hear the edge of irritation in his tone. “You can’t know about us. Not by name, at the very least.”

Dean frowns, settling farther back into the bed, tilting his head back and staring up at the waterstained ceiling. It doesn’t sit well with him, not being _allowed_ to know. Especially when Castiel knows so, so much about him. “I can’t trust you if you don’t give me anything to work with,” he mutters.

There’s a long silence, long enough that Dean gets uncomfortable and looks over at his companion. Castiel is staring at him, those uncanny blue eyes boring into him like he can read Dean’s soul. Castiel smiles faintly, tilts his head, and says, “I don’t need you to trust me, Dean. Not now. You will, one day.”

Dean looks past Castiel and out to the door, which doesn’t open like Dean halfway expects it will. Castiel follows his sightline. “Your older self and your brother are out. They aren’t coming back for several hours. They have business in town.”

“Hunting business?” Dean asks. Castiel nods, and Dean ducks his head, picking at the blanket again. “I guess I don’t get out, then. Neither does Sammy.”

“Dean.”

“It’s cool.” Dean swallows hard. “I didn’t figure I would. Kind of thought Sammy would.”

“It is complex,” Castiel says, and Dean hates the pity he hears in his voice. “Many lives have been saved because you and your brother did not ‘get out’.” Dean can hear the quotation marks, and his lips quirk up involuntarily. Castiel’s expression brightens incrementally in return, so Dean rubs his hands over his face to break the girly moment.

“Whatever,” he mumbles, and swings his legs off the side of the bed. “So what do we do until they get back? We got research or something?”

“No,” Castiel replies. “Simply rest. I will be able to take you back to your time soon.”

Dean pauses at that, waiting for the rush of elation.

It doesn’t come.

He looks over at Castiel, who simply looks back at him, his eyes devoid of judgment, patiently waiting for whatever crazy thing the dirty, freezing kid he pulled out of the past was going to do next. He looks at the bed, at the blankets that had been spread over him, at the mattress he’d had all to himself. He looks at the kitchen, where food was waiting for him—food he hadn’t had to do anything to earn.

He looks down and angrily shoves the heel of his hand against his eye.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice is gentle, and it comes from the bed. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t approached Dean. He really must know him.

“I’m a shitty brother,” Dean coughs, because he knows that whatever Castiel is, it’s something that comes with mind-reading. Or something close enough. “I should want to get back to Sammy more than anything but I’m...”

_Warm. Safe. Fed._ Kept, like some kind of freaking dog, and it’s enough to make him want to stay.

Disgusting.

A dry laugh makes Dean turn around, and Castiel is shaking his head. “You are not a bad brother,” he counters. “In my whole existence, which is of considerable length, I have never seen a brother more devoted to his sibling. You are sixteen years old, Dean. You crave comfort and security—the comfort and security that was and continues to be denied you. That is no sin. Please, eat.”

Dean swipes at his eyes once more before obeying, going to the kitchen and grabbing a box of what turns out to be take-out Chinese. He pops it in the microwave then settles down to eat it.

A few bites in, he calls, “Castiel?”

The creature walks over to the kitchen. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean spears a piece of broccoli and chews it, swallows it, slowly, before working up the courage to ask: “Am I okay? Now?”

Silence. “Are you okay,” Castiel echoes carefully.

“Now,” Dean repeats. “Um. I just—I, he, the other Dean, he seems…”

Dean trails off, but Castiel does not rescue him with a guess, simply stands by the wall, head tilted, waiting. Dean takes another forkful of rice and glares a little, but it doesn’t prompt Castiel to help.

“What does he seem, Dean?” Castiel asks after two more forkfuls.

“Tired,” Dean answers. “Miserable. Really—really _sad_. I mean I know our life’s not easy. But he just looks...done. Like he’s ready to give up.” He looks down at the counter and feels a shiver pass over his body. “Like he’s dead already.”

Dean doesn’t look up, and he hears Castiel inhale deeply, then exhale slowly. He picks at his food a little more. “I know it’s bad. I asked him why a Hunter would pair up with a—” He breaks off, lifting his head abruptly to watch for Castiel’s reaction to his words.

Castiel smiles wryly. “A monster?” he asks. Dean doesn’t respond. “A creature? It’s all right, Dean. I won’t tell you what I am, so you must make assumptions.” Dean feels his face warm with flush, and Castiel shakes his head. “You asked why he would associate with me.”

“And he said it gave him half a chance of surviving the year,” Dean finishes, keeping his eyes on Castiel, whose eyes grow shadowed. “So I know it’s bad.”

“When I met you, I told you that your problem was that you have no faith,” Castiel says after a long moment. Dean frowns. “But that’s not quite it, I don’t think. You have endless faith in some people—in your father, in Sam. Sometimes in me. You have no faith in yourself. No compassion to spare for yourself.”

And that’s enough.

Enough of the pity, of the sad glances, of the fucking _nostalgia_. Maybe his present is these people’s past, but damn it, it’s his life, and he’s not some starving kid in a charity commercial. He’s a Hunter. And if he doesn’t have _compassion_ for himself, it’s because there isn’t room.

“That’s because I screw up,” Dean argues, slamming his fork down on to the counter and pushing himself standing. “It’s what I do. I believe in Dad because he’s kept us alive, kept us safe all this time. I believe in Sammy because he’s _awesome_ and taking care of him is my job. If I believe in you, it’s because you earned it. But me? I get pulled along. I mean, look at me now—I couldn’t even hook right without almost getting turned into tomato sauce in some alley. You don’t even know me yet and you had to save my ass. I’m just a fuck-up. Apparently I stay a fuck-up.”

And Dean doesn’t understand it when Castiel is suddenly right up in his face, his hands fisted in the collar of Dean’s shirt, pressed up to him and pinning him against the wall. His breath starts coming fast and shallow because _shit_ , he doesn’t know what he said, but now Castiel’s mad at him and he still doesn’t have a weapon and why did he have to go and piss off a massively powerful whateverthefuck—

“You are not,” Castiel growls, “anything short of an incredible human. You have no concept of the things you are capable of, the things you will do—no understanding of the things you’ve already done at your age.”

“Castiel, please,” Dean rasps, but Castiel isn’t done.

“You have no idea how it _grates_ to hear you speak of yourself like that,” he continues, shifting his hands off of Dean’s collar and onto his shoulders. “How it _grates_ to hear you forgive everyone else in the world and keep flogging yourself for every misstep. I did not drag you, _both_ of us _burning_ , from the Pit because you are worthless, and I will not—”

He breaks off.

Dean stares at him.

Castiel carefully releases him and steps back, his eyes cautious, unwavering.

“The Pit?” Dean echoes.

Castiel says nothing.

“Like Hell?” Dean presses.

Castiel lowers his eyes.

“I go to _Hell_?” Dean’s voice is now a hoarse whisper. “Why? I don’t understand, what was that guy, then? A revenant? A shifter? Was that even me?”

“He is you, Dean,” Castiel assures him, though he doesn’t look at him.

“How can you tell me I’m not a fuck-up one second, then admit that I go to Hell in the next?” Dean demands, and his eyes are stinging from anger, not from tears, not from fear. “You don’t go to Hell because you’ve been really awesome at life.”

“You don’t know what happened, Dean,” Castiel argues, some of the fire back in his eyes.

“So tell me,” Dean snarls, “and _fuck_ the time line. You’ve already screwed that up.”

Castiel laughs hollowly, hangs his head, and says, “Yes. I suppose I have.”

“Tell me,” Dean says again.

Castiel takes a breath, and at that moment, a key jangles outside and the door opens.

Sammy and Dean’s older self walk in, Other Dean grinning lopsided and Sammy laughing. Both of them stop immediately when they see the scene in front of them: Castiel pale and slumped, Dean red-eyed with his shirt rumpled and his hands in fists.

Other Dean, whose shirt is torn over a bloody gash on his arm, speaks first, his voice tight as a violin string. “Anybody wanna volunteer to explain what in the merry hell is going on here?”

“Castiel was about to tell me what the fuck he meant by _dragging me out of the Pit_ ,” Dean spits, still glaring at Castiel.

Sammy groans. “Seriously, Cas?”

“He angered me,” Castiel replies, sounding petulant. “He was speaking ill of himself, and I forgot myself.”

“Figure you’d be used to that by now,” Other Dean mutters, wincing as he unbuttons his overshirt, his movements crisp and efficient. But Dean knows himself. He’s paler than blood loss and pain would account for. He’s scared.

Castiel lowers his eyes but presses his lips together, a thin, irritated line.

“I gotta go take care of this arm,” Other Dean declares, and shoves past Castiel into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

That leaves Dean, Castiel, and Sammy in the room, and Dean tries his best to compose himself. He doesn’t want Sammy to see him like this, snot-nosed and teary-eyed and out of control. He doesn’t ever want any version of Sammy to see him like this.

“I apologize, Sam,” Castiel murmurs. “My carelessness—”

“You’ll figure it out, Cas,” Sammy interrupts, sounding very calm. “Can you give me and Dean a minute?”

Castiel frowns, turns to Dean, who doesn’t say anything, then back to Sam. He nods once, curtly, and disappears.

Just fucking disappears.

But Dean doesn’t have the energy to be shocked, and he just walks over to the bed and sits down heavily. Sammy sits across from him, hunching over, making himself smaller and less threatening, and it pisses Dean off slightly more than it makes him feel better.

“You okay?” Sammy asks.

“No,” Dean mutters.

Sammy nods. “I get it. Cas shouldn’t have said anything. But he did, and you…” Sammy pauses, then sighs, and Dean looks up at him. “You want to hear a story?”

Dean doesn't.

He really doesn’t.

But he nods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laptops are excellent and I love them.


End file.
